The Menoa Tree: Mother of the Forest
by iSackettEcho
Summary: The legend and story of the Menoa tree, and of Linnëa, the elf who bound herself to a tree and the forest.  Previously posted on SF3
1. Prologue: Linnëa

Prologue: Linnëa

A child elf flitted through the forest, spinning on her heels and laughing with a tinkling, magical sound. Slanting sunlight danced in the child elf's hair, small rainbows of split light bowing from the dark, silky strands. Her pale skin vied against the sunlight, pale and brilliant enough in its own beauty to be almost as magnificent as the jealous sun. The child elf fairly exuded light from somewhere inside her, a magical flow through her young veins.

The child elf's father followed solemnly, silently, behind the child. Even as he watched his daughter lose herself in her playful reverie, he knew that this elf child was more magical than any of the other magical elf children. All elf children were special with the raw and beautiful flow of new magic from the dragons fresh in their veins, but his daughter, he undoubtedly knew, had something more… or rather, she somehow had _more_. More magic than the other elf children. More control over the flow through her veins. More… _aware_.

He watched his child with unguarded affection, but a deep abiding worry weighed heavily upon his heart. What magical malice, what strange, horrible fate must invariably await those in possession of such great natural magic, like his sweet daughter? Deep ponderings full of worry often kept him awake in the night. She was not like other elf children, and his foreboding nature told him that some ill fate awaited his daughter. The knowledge almost drove him mad, and hate swelled in his chest at the thought of how no other elf need ever feel such anxiety over his own within the deep, peaceful confines of Du Weldenvarden Forest. He had already lost his mate to an unforeseen and grotesquely unexpected tragedy. He could not bare the death also of his daughter. However, as all elves unwaveringly do, he kept his face well guarded from expression.

As he watched, the elf child darted behind a tree and ducked beneath a flowering bush, disappearing from sight.

"Linnëa!" he called, fear spiking his heart, though the emotion never showed on his face. "Linnëa, I cannot see you!"

The elf child hopped to her feet, once again in her father's sight. A delighted grin stretched across her face. Skipping to her father's side, she tilted her head back to look up into her father's stately face.

"Do not worry, Father," she soothed, her enchanting, high soprano voice turning their Elven language into music tumbling over her tongue, "nothing can happen to me here. No, not here in the forest. I love the forest, and I _know_ that the forest loves me!"

Her father smiled with amused affection. "And how do you know this, that the forest loves you?"

Her eyes grew big as she told him. "I know because I can hear the forest whispering to me."

The elf felt apprehensive, gazing down at his only daughter. "What kinds of things does the forest whisper to you?"

Linnëa lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper and beckoned for him to lean in closer to hear. "When I close my eyes, I imagine that I can almost hear the forest whispering that it will embrace me, hold me in its arms, and call me Mother. The forest whispers that I must come to it when my heart is broken, and it will find a healing tonic and a new purpose for me. Only, I wasn't imagining it. It really is a whisper. It's a voice like the wind running through the tree branches, or like the rain sliding down the leaves of the forest. And so I know that the forest loves me and wants me here often."

The elf fought to control his expression, but despair won as his face gave over the fear he felt in his heart.

Easily recognizing the fear and despair in his face, Linnëa patted her father's arm comfortingly. "Do not worry, Father," she reassured him with her musical voice. "All will be well. The forest said so."


	2. Chapter 1: The Cruelty of Youth

Chapter 1 The Cruelty of Youth

Linnëa skipped along the forest path. Soft golden sunlight shimmered down through the changing trees. Autumn once again returned to the forests of Du Weldonvarden, laying a majestic robe of brilliant yellows, violent oranges, and passionate reds over the land. Linnëa could feel the saddening approach of winter, but she revealed in the forest as it prepared itself, its leaves changing and coloring, as if the forest were pulling out its masks for one final glorious masquerade.

As she entered the path that led to the Hall of the Masters, Linnëa slowed her pace. Reminded of where she was heading, she walked through the forest with her thoughts downcast and her head bowed in frustration. As she did everyday, she went to the Masters to learn. She despised the daily ritual, for all the other elven children teased and mocked her.

Rounding a bend in her path, she saw the other children gathered together outside the Hall of the Masters. They laughed and whispered among themselves in groups. Each child was lean and limber, their hair long and silky, and their skin pale and soft. Each was beautiful, but none had eyes nor skin nor grace like Linnëa. Her eyes were deep brown, deep like the dark rich soil of the earth, and they slanted to such a great degree as to give her a shrewd and devious appearance. Her skin glowed even paler than the others', pale like the enchanting moonlight. When she ran, she ran swifter than a deer and more graceful than a prowling wolf. And when she danced, the ferocity and passion of the hated dragons flared in her every move and step. Some called her beautiful. Others called her eerie and frightening.

Linnëa's bare feet brushed over the golden leaves on the ground with a sound no louder than a faint whisper. No one heard her approach. Brushing her silky black hair from her eyes, she walked silently through the group, towards the door of the Hall. One by one the students noticed her arrival.

"Look at her cat eyes," one whispered loudly. "Only evil has eyes like that."

"She looks possessed by a wild dragon," another shivered.

"Like father, like daughter," the first added, exciting laughter from the other elven children.

"Her dark magic has driven her mad," a third one chimed. "Look, she's decided to no longer wear shoes!" The children laughed as they pointed at her bare feet.

Tears stung in Linnëa's eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She pushed through the tight circle of children around her and ran away from the Hall of Masters, back towards the forest. Once out of sight and alone, she slowed to a walk, her heart heavy with loneliness. Finally allowing the tears to slip from her eyes, she wandered blindly, wondering yet again why they always ostracized her from their group. Always when she neared, their eyes darkened, and their mouths turned down into scoffing frowns.

Furthermore, it was not only the children that treated her differently. Adults fell silent when she was near, shifting their feet uncomfortably in her presence. When she sang, they looked afraid or pained, the same expression Linnëa imagined would be on their faces if they were forced to walk upon the ledges of the high and treacherous Spine Mountains. Her father too, she noticed, was treated differently and without the same degree of respect given to the other Elders.

In her young age, she could not yet fathom the elves' behavior towards her. However, she understood that she was not wanted.

Tears sliding down her checks and dripping from her chin, she picked up her pace and sprinted down the forest path. Bursting through the door of her small home, she ran to her father, burying her head in her hands as she lay her head on his lap and sobbed.

"Why do they hate me so much?" she cried, her voice muffled through her hands.

"Ah, Linnëa," she heard her father's soothing voice. "What happened?"

"They made fun of me again, as they always do," she sniffled. "Why do they treat me so mean?"

Gently, her father lifted her into his arms, tucking her head comfortingly under his chin. "You are different from them, Linnëa. Sometimes people cannot accept what is different from them."

"Different how?" she frowned, wiping her hand over her wet cheeks.

"You just have more, Linnëa. More magic somehow," he whispered. "At least, that is what I believe. You are special. And though the others may not know what it is, they do recognize this special difference in you and envy it."

"Is that why the elves treat you so differently too?" she asked.

"No, they treat me so differently because of what I believe," he explained, gently rubbing soothing circles on his daughter's back.

Raising her head to look in her father's face, she prompted, "What do you believe?"

"That the magic," he began, his deep voice grave, "is not something we gained possession of on our own. Since coming to this land from Alalëa, our first homeland across the vast sea, our powers have grown. I believe that the presence of the dragons allows the magic to flow more freely through our veins. The dragons cause magic to flow through this land."

Linnëa shook her head, confused. "But dragons are dumb animals," she said.

"No," he gently contradicted. "I do not believe that. I believe that they are intelligent and are creatures full of magic!"

Linnëa listened in wonder to his words. "Sounds incredible."

"Yes," hummed her father in agreement. "Yes, it is an incredible idea. But the other Elders believe incredible to mean absurd."

"You are not absurd!" Linnëa shouted in his defense. "You are my father, and I know that there is no elf better than you!"

The elf smiled at his daughter with deep affection. How quickly she flew to a crazy old elf's defense! Wishing to take her mind away from these unpleasant things, he nodded towards the forest.

"Go to the forest. Take a walk there and calm yourself," he told her gently, brushing the hair away from her face and wiping the tears from her cheeks. He hated suggesting that she go to the forest, but he knew of the solitude and comfort she found there. To deny her visits to the whispering forests was beyond his command when faced with viewing her misery.

"I will, father," she threw her arms around him, squeezing him tightly. "Do you want to come?" she asked, pulling away to stare into his silvery eyes.

He struggled with himself before answering, "I wish to, but the Elders are meeting today. I must leave soon."

"They hate you too, you know," she pouted.

"I know, Linnëa," the elf sighed, allowing his imperceptive mask drop to show his weariness. "But sometimes to stand by one's beliefs and opinions is not always the popular thing to do."

Linnëa nodded, not quite understanding her father. Comforted by the thought of her beloved forest, she hugged her father before sliding off his lap and eagerly heading out into the forest.

Entering a well-known path, she reached out to touch the nearest tree. A wind picked up and blew through the forest, leaves rustling their welcome. As she walked beneath the trees, branches reached towards her, leaves brushing over her cheeks and petting her hair.

"Mother," she heard the forest whispered as one. "Mother has returned."

Once again hearing the many whispers of the forest, Linnëa giggled and began to dance, spinning gleefully under the trees. Opening her mouth, she sang the old songs of her people from long ago. She allowed magic to flow through her songs, and the flowers near her feet opened into glorious blooms, though spring had long passed and winter was nearing.

Dancing and singing amidst the forest, the young elf forgot her tormenting peers, her father's scoffing mockers, and even time itself, forgetting all but the beautiful forest as she joined in with its last autumn masquerade.


	3. Chapter 2: A Truce in Friendship

Chapter 2

A Truce in Friendship

Linnëa wandered down an unknown forest path, surveying the sleepy forest around her. The glory of autumn had passed into the paltry, gloomy, gray barrenness that reigned between the golden majesty of fall and the icy beauty of winter. The forest drooped, ready to give into the power of winter and surrender itself for its long, cold sleep. The loss of the forest's companionship every winter saddened her. Linnëa's head dropped to her chest under this gloomy thought.

A rustling of leaves echoed in Linnëa's ears from somewhere to her right. Turning her head and peering through the bare branches, she spotted a dark figure bent over, rustling and rummaging through the brown leaves that now thickly covered the forest floor. As she neared, the figure became aware of another's presence and straightened to reveal an elf that was just a little older than Linnëa herself.

The elf was tall, though not particularly slim or gracious-looking. Her long, dark hair flowed wild and unchecked around her shoulders and down her back. Her dark eyes bore into Linnëa, sizing up the magical elven child.

"Who are you?" Linnëa asked the dark eyed elf.

"Rhunön," she answered, her voice rough like the sand by the far away sea. Without saying more, the elf bent back over and started once again to riffle through the thick matting of brown leaves.

When the elf remained silent at her task, Linnëa asked, "Don't you wish to know who I am?"

"Whether I wish it or not, you will tell me without my asking," she said without glancing back up.

"Are you insulting me?" Linnëa demanded, heat rising to her cheeks.

Rhunön glanced up to meet her eyes then. "If I wanted to insult you, there would be no doubt as to whether or not I had."

The elf returned her gaze to her work.

"You are a little strange," Linnëa commented.

"So others have said," the elf nodded without offense.

Linnëa silently watched the strange elf at her strange task. After a few more moments of awkward silence, Rhunön lifted an eyebrow at her. Realizing that Linnëa was not going away, she waved her hands. "Shoo, now. I've got work to do."

"What kind of work?" Linnëa asked, still watching with evident curiosity. "I can help!" she offered.

Rhunön sighed. "Alright. I'm looking for some of this metal—see this here? Help me find more of it." As she spoke, the elf pulled a sliver of dark, glittering metal from a pouch at her waist and held it up in her hand for Linnëa to see.

"I thought metal needed to be mined."

"Yes, but this metal is not metal from Alagaesia. It is metal that fell from the sky," Rhunön explained impatiently.

"How do you know it is from the sky?" she asked, watching Rhunön intently search the ground beneath shrubs and bushes.

"What do you mean how do I know?" Rhunön questioned tersely, straightening to her full domineering height. "Why, that is what I do, work with metal. I know every kind of metal there is. I make it my business to know. And this metal is not from Alagaesia. And I know it's from the sky because how else would I have found it just lying there on the ground? Do you think some crazy dragon dug it up and just left it there?"

"Oh," Linnëa frowned, stepping back from Rhunön. "But what do you need it for? What are you making?"

"Swords," Rhunön answered simply, renewing her search.

"Swords?" Linnëa repeated dumbly.

"Of course swords," the other elf scoffed. "What else would one use the strongest metal in the land to make?"

Linnëa shrugged. Swords did not interest her like the trees and plants of the forest. She momentarily watched the strange elf laboring at her tedious task. "You'll never find anything that way."

"Do you have a better idea?" Rhunön shot.

Ignoring her rude tone, Linnëa began to sing one of her songs, a song of love for her forest. The bare branches of the trees and the leaves covering the small bushes and the thick tree roots at the forest floor waved, shifted, and swayed in time to her music, as if they were stomping their feet and dancing in the wind. Seconds at a time, the foliage and roots revealed the bare ground beneath the dead, brown leaves.

"Well, aren't you handy?" Rhunön muttered, running and kneeling close to the leafless patches of ground to try and find any sign of the metal she so dearly desired.

Linnëa finally stopped singing, and the forest fell still again. Rhunön sighed. "There isn't any here. At least, none that I saw."

Linnëa frowned. She had wanted to impress this stranger, make her like her…. She desperately wanted to make a friend. She thought hard for a solution to the strange elf's predicament.

"Come!" Linnëa exclaimed. "I know a place!"

Dashing away, she sprinted through the forest, brushing past her beloved trees and endearing plants, to a large tree deep in the forest. Without pausing, she threw herself onto the first low branch and scrambled up to the top branch of the tree.

"Come up, Rhunön!" she called down, seeing the other elf starring up from far below.

Linnëa heard the elf muttering complaints to herself as she climbed up after her. Nearing, the elf took a steadying breath before pulling herself up onto the highest branch next to Linnëa.

"This is the oldest tree in the forest. You can see everything from here," she told her, excitement and pride in her voice.

Glancing over barren treetops, the two young elves could indeed see everything. Squinting, Rhunön searched the forest below.

"There!" she exclaimed, pointing to a spot close by.

Scrambling down the tree, she ran to the place she had seen, kneeling before a slab of her precious sky metal. Linnëa followed slowly after the elf, tentative and curious.

Hefting the heavy slab of dark, shimmering metal into her arms, she turned towards Linnëa. "Thanks, forest-elf," she said, her dark eyes glittering with satisfaction. "See you around."

Linnëa frowned as she watched the elf turn to walk away. "Wait," she called after the elf. "Can't I see what you do with it?"

The elf shrugged. "Come to my forge sometime."

With that, the elf disappeared down a forest path, carrying her favored, precious metal. Linnëa smiled to herself. She hadn't exactly made a friend that day, but it was more of a friendship than she'd ever had to enjoy. Skipping down a path in the opposite direction, she sang a happy, lilting lullaby to her sleepy forest.


	4. Chapter 3: A Secretice Admirer

Chapter 3

A Secretive Admirer

Snow fell serenely from the sky, delicate crystal orbs floating down into the sleeping forest, joining the untouched white blanket below. The forest was lagged and still, hypnotized under the mesmerizing chill of winter's spell.

A small figure walked through the falling snow and into the silent forest. The cloaked elf child extended her delicate fingers to trace the patterns of the bark on the trees she passed. The sound of her small feet brushing over the snow and crunching it beneath their shifting weight broke the permeating silence.

Linnëa watched, enchanted, as her small feet left indentations in the snow. Giggling with her musical, tinkling laugh, she ducked under a tree bow laden heavy with snow. The eerie silence of the dormant forest chilled her, but the snow reminded her that the forest was only sleeping beneath nature's snug, crystalline blanket. Her beloved forest would sleep soundly, unaware, and survive the frigid cold.

The elven child followed the winding path, dusted with snow, towards the house of her private tutor, Master Gilderien. After the long years of abuse and torment from her young classmates, her father decided to find an isolated master, away from others of her own age, afraid that their malice might somehow taint the special, ethereal magic flowing so unnaturally strong through her veins.

Linnëa scuffed the snow-covered ground with her foot. She hated being forced into the solution of a private tutelage, but she was also relieved to be free from her spiteful classmates. She enjoyed the company and tutelage of her master, the young Gilderien, son of Faramah, for he was especially kind towards her. She had a faint suspicion that he admired her for her magical gifts. All her life, only her father had ever admired her for anything. Scorn was all that the others showed towards her. The thought that Gilderien also might think she was special warmed her heart.

Entering his secluded home, she squinted through the bright light cast from numerous candles scattered throughout the room. "Good day, Master Gilderien," she said.

Looking up and placing his quill ink pen carefully on the table, he smiled and greeted, "Felicitations, Linnëa. How fares the weather?" Linnëa was always particularly concerned about the weather, for it affected her dear forest, and she regularly commented on it at each of their meetings.

Linnëa shared a few of her thoughts before slipping into a chair beside him. She watched as the master extracted a large scroll from a precarious pile and carefully unraveled it.

Linnëa struggled to pay attention as Gilderien taught her, but her mind often wandered back to her beloved forest or pondered upon why Gilderien was so kind towards her. She wondered it he was actually fond of her or if he was simply kind by nature.

Tilting her head to the side, she closely studied his features for the first time. He was young, and his face still shone with a lingering youthful exuberance. However, he could not be considered a handsome elf. His eyes were too round, his ears too blunt, his nose too long, and his mouth too thin. His hair, however, was glorious—dark as the new moon but casting a silvery reflection when the light shone on it. His face and eyes were soft and kind, and his hands were gentle and calm as he unrolled the old, ancient scrolls. He was a little odd for an elf, but he had a natural wisdom in his heart.

When he paused for breath, in the middle of a lecture on the nomenclatures of numerous species belonging to the sea, Linnëa blurted, "How will any of this help me? I only want to live all my life in the forests of Du Weldenvarden. I aim never to leave it, in fact."

Gilderien opened his mouth to answer but then stopped, dumbfounded. A confused amusement spread momentarily over his face before he recovered his expression. Blinking a few times before he answered, he explained, "Once you see the sea, Linnëa, you will wonder why we do not live there. The sea makes our people mad. Its lure and call is infectious to us. Once you saw it, you would never want to return to the forest."

"But all the elves have returned to the forests. They do not live by the sea," she contradicted. An angry pout on her face, she insisted, "I never want to see the sea! Anything that would call me away from my forests is not good! Besides, it is always better to dwell where one is not mad."

Gilderien laughed at her outrage, his laughter too rough and uneven for an elf. His merriment was soothing enough, however, and Linnëa wiped the scowl from her face. "Ah, Linnëa," Gilderien said affectionately at last, "you are one of a kind, from an ancient, magical breed, I think." He paused, pondering a moment. "Go, now, for the day. Go and enjoy your forest, for I see that we shall not make much progress this day."

Linnëa bounded to her feet and slipped her cloak over her shoulders. The forest's tired, sleepy call still drew her to return.

"Before you leave, will you sing a song for me?" he asked, his face blank except for a faint hint of hopeful expectation.

Tilting her head to the side, she asked, "Why?" No one but her father ever cared to hear he sing. Too eerie, everyone else had said.

"It soothes me," he answered simply, without inflection.

With a shrug and a lightly curving smile, Linnëa opened her mouth to sing. She chose a lament, appropriate for the loss of her forest's companionship. Her tutor leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and laying his hands in his lap. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he listened to her exquisitely magical song.

Linnëa gathered her scrolls and left the master's rooms and house as she continued to sing, leaving her song as her farewell. Her voice echoed in his halls as she opened his door and slipped out into the cold winter afternoon.

Linnëa sprinted through the thick show drifts and into the safety and cover of her forest. As she ran, she continued to sing, her song changed to an unsettling dirge. The forest shivered beneath her song and the heavy snow, pointing their scraggly branches towards the heart of the forest. Snow fell around Linnëa, thick as a blizzard, from the shivering tree branches.

"To the heart of the forest, mother," the trees whispered, their faint voices muffled and slurred under winter's heavy sleepiness.

"Come to our winter revel," an old voice of the forest lured from far away. "We need you here. Come, mother. Come."

The voice and the words echoed over and over again in her mind. She followed the pull towards the center of the forest, dropping her scrolls into the skeleton of a hawthorn bush in her excitement. At last she stopped, staring up at an enormous tree, the oldest tree in the forest.

A thick blanket a glistening snow, as yet untouched by any being, animal or elf, clung to the ancient tree of the forest, hugging the old tree like an elegant, shimmering gown. The unsoiled white snow glittered like a thousand diamond shard encrusted and cut into a gown and strands of draping jewelry.

The faint sound of tinkling bells shivered in the air around her, emanating from the gowned tree. In her astonishment, Linnëa stopped singing. The forest fell silent. In the quiet, Linnëa marveled at the sight. The old tree and its surrounding companions appeared to be prepared for a winter masquerade—a dancing, magical, winter ball.

"The Winter Revel," the old tree broke the silence, its voice fading painfully away. "You must sing, mother. Sing!"

Afraid that the voices of her beloved forest would fade away completely, Linnëa rose her voice, singing with all the strength her lungs possessed. The song spoke of forgotten things, untold mysteries, unbound magic, and the peace and calm of winter's enchanting, chilly presence. The song was magic itself being woven into the forest around her.

The trees swayed and danced in time to her song, humming in time with life's song. Snow fell thickly around her as she never ceased to sing. Closing her eyes, Linnëa shivered with glee at feeling the life of her forest around her, at feeling the brief winter awakening of the ancient trees. She sang and sang, forgetting time and all other things, except for her beloved forest.


End file.
